


At the Mountain King's Return

by RushingWaters



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU where nobody dies, Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RushingWaters/pseuds/RushingWaters
Summary: During and after the Battle of the Five Armies, a series of unexpected events strike the line of Durin. Their homeland may be reclaimed, but dark forces still assail Erebor, and the King under the Mountain must face the challenges posed by the politics of internal strife and the threat of external enemies alike.





	1. The Dragon's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> This story is both book canon and movie-verse friendly if you ignore any events in the last two movies that involve characters not found in the original book. This chapter contains a few dialogue lines from the BOFA movie, something that will not happen again in later chapters.
> 
> The whole thing is obviously unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any grammar errors/typos/character getting ooc etc., I'm sure there's a lot of them I missed XD

 

“We are losing the battle, Thorin.”

Seated upon his carven throne deep within the heart of Erebor, the King under the Mountain made no movement to indicate that he had heard his nephew’s words. They echoed back at him, eerie and golden in the silent halls. The lands underneath the storm-sky may bleed red from the screams of the fallen and the ringing clash of swords, but here under the mountain, sequestered behind thousands of tonnes of solid stone, no clamour of battle reached them. It was a silence that could almost be mistaken for peace, save for the invasion of his presence, which presented an unwelcome discord amongst the golden perfection of the king’s rule.

The silence unnerved him. The cold vacantness in his king and uncle’s eyes as he pored over some trinket in his hands frightened him. He would have liked nothing better than to flee the halls and pass the task onto some other unfortunate individual, so unsettling was the feeling of seeing one loved to become so alien. But even now in this grim situation there was a small part of his own mind that would bathe in complacency at the picture, composed of everything that he had dreamed of in his entire life: The vast golden halls with wealth beyond measure, with no need for want; Erebor was reclaimed, his homeland and inheritance was restored; the majestic figure of Thorin in his rightful throne, clad in kingly regalia of crown and shining mail, and the trinket in his hand, some well-cut teardrop ruby the size of a hen’s egg that gleamed like fresh-spilt blood, was so enticingly shiny––

Blood. The blood of his kinsmen and allies that were being spilt outside the mountain on this day, in this instant. With a sickening jolt the imagery wrenched his mind back from the ever-awaiting traps of the gold-sickness, reminding him of his duty, his purpose for coming. He would have been horrified, or at least somewhat alarmed, at the close lapse, but now there was no time.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer and tried again, searching for words that would impart the severity of the situation enough to push Thorin into a reaction. “Dáin’s forces are vastly outnumbered. Our people are dying.”

Again there was no response.

“Will you not at least come out and see?” he asked despairingly, kneeling down and clutching at Thorin’s hand.

One of his fingers brushed perilously close to the ruby that Thorin held, and now Thorin recoiled with a start, the strange flash in his eyes causing him to flinch back slightly. But there was recognition in his gaze as he turned them upon his nephew; that in itself was success enough to accelerate the beat of his heart, and so he did not let go, choosing instead to ignore the fact that the old familiarity and affection that he was used to seeing in his uncle was so coldly lacking.

“Fíli,” the king acknowledged at last. The sparks of Fíli’s hopes rose, only to be doused back down with a renewed bitterness by Thorin’s next words. “There is naught out there to see,” he said, his voice distanced by apathy. “The mountain is safe, our fortifications strong. No enemies shall reach us here.”

There was a momentary lapse of stillness as Fíli gaped in disbelief. “But what of Dáin? He is being surrounded. They are _dying_ , Thorin, slaughtered like sheep in their folds. We must open the gates––”

“Many die in war. Life is cheap. But a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost.” Thorin’s eyes – dragon’s eyes – swept contently across the golden halls before turning down to smile at the blood-red ruby, lifting it slightly to catch the torchlight. It was the smile of a feral beast guarding its kill, the smile of a dragon admiring its hoard. “It is worth all the blood we can spend.”

Treasure. Worth. Was this all that was left? Fíli tilted his head back, desperately searching his uncle’s face for some hope of redemption, some shred of remaining clarity – for surely the effects of the dragon sickness cannot be irreversible – but there was nothing. For all the empty indifference to his kin’s sacrifice in Thorin’s voice and expression he may as well have been made of carven stone. In a last attempt to reach through the hardened façade and with a falling heart, he said softly, “We are the ones who asked them to come, uncle. Our kin dies now at _our_ command, yet we would abandon them to do so alone. Does that mean nothing to you? No guilt of blood upon our hands? You did not used to be like this.”

When Thorin did not answer, Fíli smiled sadly and turned his uncle’s hand over, gently extracting the ruby from his grasp. He turned it to the light much like Thorin had done, except he held it suspended over Thorin’s palm, so that the brightness pierced through the gem’s transparent quality and cast a myriad of deep red shadows upon the king’s hand. “Because there _will_ be blood, uncle, such that can never be washed away. But perhaps this is what you see it as – gilded over by gold, by glory, by the righteousness of the crown upon your head. Thus you would justify your actions.”

He dropped the ruby back into Thorin’s hand with a sigh of frustration and stood to leave. “And so the curse of our line claims us all,” he said bitterly as he turned away. “I would never have thought to witness the mistakes of our grandfathers reinstated upon you, uncle. But be as it may, fate has decreed that our homeland be turned back into Moria, and another Azanulbizar now repeats outside our gates. I am only sorry that I should live to see this day.”

 Harsh as they were, there was little condemnation contained within Fíli’s words, only the quiet bitterness of one who knew the inevitability of defeat. Yet they were enough to incite Thorin into a fury that even the earlier talk of blood and death could not achieve. In a mighty clang of sword against stone he was on his feet, whirling upon the younger dwarf and pulling him roughly around to face himself with undisguised anger. The ruby clattered forlornly to the floor, forgotten.

 “How dare you speak to me of Azanulbizar!” he cried, features contorting with rage. For a brief moment Fíli knew fear, true fear, not that which a subject should feel before a displeased king, but the fear of a victim before an enraged tyrant, so similar was Thorin’s expression to the day when he threatened to kill Bilbo for his treachery atop the battlements. “How dare you–– I am not my grandfather! You know nothing of my loss!”

“I know them well enough,” he said, swiftly regaining composure, “For although I was not yet born at the time of Azanulbizar, I too have borne the heavy shadows of its consequences, just like the rest of our people. All my life I have witnessed your pain and grieved for it. You lost your father, grandfather, a brother, these are kin that I would never know. And there is not a single dwarf of Durin’s Folk in Ered Luin who was spared a similar loss.

“Now our kinsmen of the Iron Hills stand upon the brink of a similar fate. They are loyal, Thorin. They came to our aid when called, and are willing to fight to the death for us now. Will you repay them for their devotion in kind, or will you do as Thrór did all those years ago and condemn our people to break themselves against a hopeless enemy? You have often told us that Thrór was a fair king once. But the last mistake he made eclipsed all his previous virtues, and now he is known far and wide as a mad king who valued riches above the lives of his subjects. Will you condemn _yourself_ to that same end?”

To Fíli’s surprise, Thorin – who had stood with narrowed eyes and an unreadable expression throughout the delivery of his little tirade – actually threw back his head and laughed. Fíli had to ignore the slight urge to shiver; there was no mirth in the sound, only pure, unadulterated madness.

 “A most eloquent discourse,” he chuckled, placing a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and drawing him closer. In a conversational tone, he asked, “Who taught you to say such things?”

Confused, Fíli tried to step back, but the grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened like a vice. “No one, uncle. I merely speak of our concerns.”

Thorin continued as if he had not heard him, his voice musing. “Was it Balin? Dwalin? The others have not the nerve to challenge me thus. And Óin and Glóin cares for little other than the contents of their own purse.” Fíli had to stifle a scoff at that, it was ironic, coming from Thorin in his current state – but then Thorin’s hand tightened to the point of pain. His king and uncle now fixed him with a gaze as sharp and cold as splinters of glacial ice, though beyond them burned the heat of madness. “Yes… Balin was always a little too close to the Halfling traitor. Only he would think of bringing up the old losses. It must be them, then. Tell me, do you come here on their behalf?”

“On their behalf, and on the behalf of everyone in the company,” Fíli answered, with a sinking feeling about where this conversation is going but with no way to prevent it. “There is a battle outside, uncle, one that we are _losing_. If Azog and his spawn prevails then he will besiege the mountain and starve us to death. Yet you sit here and do nothing. I am your heir, is it not my duty to speak to you?”

Those last words – as he uttered them Fíli thought he saw a crack appear in the other dwarf’s composure, and for a moment Fíli fancied that he almost glimpsed a brief hint of pain – though it was gone so quickly that he might well have imagined it. With a noise of contempt Thorin dug his fingers deep one last time and flung Fíli away from him, his voice saturated by vehement rage. “So they aspire to poison my own blood against me,” he spat. “Traitors!”

“The only poison that exists is in your own mind!” Fíli shot back. Dimly he regretted all the harsh words he spoke on this day, for Thorin is his king and should not endure such disrespect from himself, and if their deaths were to take place sometime nearby then their parting memories should not be of such a dismal conversation. But it was too late for such thoughts now. It may even be too late for the warriors outside. He bowed his head, shoulders slumping in defeat. Thorin’s decision was clear. He was not in his right mind and would likely never be. There was no further need for argument, no choice other than to comply, because he is and always will be their king. “By your will, we will forsake our people to the blades of orcs today. All the coins in the world will not be enough to buy back our honour from this shame.”

The sentence sounded choked in his throat, flavoured with the bitter taste of failure. Fíli turned and walked away, his footsteps hurried, eager to escape to somewhere, anywhere, even though he knew there was no mortal refuge that could harbour the atrocity of the wrong that they were about to commit.

Thorin did not stop him this time.

But as he approached the end of the columns, Fíli stopped and turned around. His uncle’s figure had already faded with the stretch of distance, lonely and indifferent amid the solemn stone pillars. He stood a mere couple hundred yards away, yet Fíli had the strangest feeling that all the many leagues from Erebor to Ered Luin would not be enough to cross the space that spanned between them.

“There was fire in your eyes once, uncle,” he said softly, voice echoing across the golden chamber, grieved but without censure. “A flame that burned brightly for all to follow. Now there is only blindness.”

      

* * *

 

Thorin stared after his nephew as he disappeared past the arched entrance of the great hall, feeling the familiar tides of consuming fury rise and ebb in his chest, twisting like the throes of a serpent. Instinctively he started to follow, but held himself back as soon as he became aware of the act. No doubt Fíli would go back to the front chambers and bring the company news of his failed petition, which would then be met with varied reactions of muttered disappointment (Balin and Glóin, probably) and cries of outright anger (his youngest nephew, for certain). The afterwards they would go sit in their clustered little groups and whisper their anger at their king’s blindness, whispers that when left to fester for long enough would eventually give birth to sentiments of unrest, presumed injustice, and in its final stage, treachery.

Yes, he had seen it all before. Had seen it, felt it, _suffered_ it in the aftermath of that disastrous battle over a hundred and forty years ago, when the barely-hushed resentments of the seven clans turned upon his father and grandfather for blame over their innumerable dead. _Madness,_ they had said, when they thought that he was not listening. Or perhaps they did not care who heard. A mad decision made by a mad king, a king blinded by greed and pride who drove his people into the jaws of death under the promise of a false future. A madness that was doomed to repeat, over and over, until it claimed every last one of the line of Durin––

 _‘And so the curse of our line claims us all,’_ whispered Fíli’s well-timed voice in his mind. _‘Another Azanulbizar now repeats outside our gates…’_

“No,” Thorin spoke aloud. He shook his head, clearing it of doubt. The serpent reared. It was not true. Erebor was not Moria, the plains at its feet not Azanulbizar, and Thorin was _not_ his grandfather, because Erebor was reclaimed whereas Moria had been lost to them from the beginning. Death itself will not be sufficient to rob him of his homeland for a second time. He would risk its loss at no cost, not even for the lives of his kin in the Iron Hills, because the roots of their betrayal stretched back to exactly that same point. Could they not see? Dáin had been the first to forsake his father in their utmost time of need, by the great gates of Khazad-dûm on that fateful day; he had failed his loyalty and defied Thráin’s command to enter the mountain, and of his example the other houses had followed. It was the perfect end, for the forsaker to become the forsaken; if fate has decreed that the cycle of events must come full circle, then at least it should do so with justice.

The serpent around his heart gave a little twist of glee at the thought. It opened its mouth to bare needle-sharp fangs, even as the organ it entrapped recoiled in horror and disgust. _Madness,_ his heart warned, beating furiously to escape. Thorin tore his thoughts away before the venomous thing could clamp down, turning instead to his nephew once more.

But of course, Fíli knew none of this. He was too young, and while the events at Moria was not a forbidden subject amongst his people, few willingly spoke of it, especially in his own household, where the grief of loss ran so deeply that he once wondered if his sister had given explicit commands against its discussion. So Fíli could not have known the specifics of the events that unfolded on that day, or those that occurred on the eve of its commencement, which might well make his words pertaining them the result of mere coincidence or a lucky score from wild accusations made by a presumptuous youngster. It could be explained away easily enough to be innocent…

 _Could it really?_ The serpent hissed mockingly, binding its coils ever tighter. _Such well-chosen words, as befitting an heir’s duty…_

 _‘I am your heir, is it not my duty to speak to you?’_ Fíli’s voice came readily on cue, though it sounded strangely muffled, as if by distance, despite having been spoken only moments before in these very halls.

“No,” Thorin whispered again, knowing what was about to come.

But the tides of memory were merciless, and the same lines from a different time now replayed in his mind, unwelcomed, unbidden, yet unstoppable, summoning echoes from a past too sorrowing to recall yet unclouded by the passage of years.

_‘You are his heir, is it not your duty to speak to him?’_

Even reaching across the span of a century and again half that length, Frerin’s voice still rang out with the clarity of life. The serpent cringed back, dismayed by what it had unleashed. It was like drawing a knife across the scar of a long-closed wound, bringing forth the blood of fresh doubts and old hurts in one swift stroke; the terrible notes of despair and accusation behind the words still had the ability to cut as deeply and painfully as they did on that last night before his death.

_‘The orcs are too many. They are ready for us. We march to our fate tomorrow like hapless sheep before the slaughter field. Make him see past his madness, before it is too late!’_

Madness. Sheep before the slaughter field. The duty of an unfortunate heir to deter the follies made by a mad king, perpetually doomed to failure. The serpent writhing in his chest, who in its fading throes still struggled to implant poisonous ideas of treachery and manipulation. Thorin almost laughed aloud. As if such shadows over the mind could be lifted by words of reason! Frerin did not know of the extent of Thorin’s efforts to dissuade their grandfather from leading his people on a march to their deaths. Or, more likely, he did know, and still deemed Thorin’s actions to be inadequate. But none of that mattered. What had mattered then was that Frerin spoke the truth; they had met their fate that day, with so many of their kin surviving Smaug’s fire only to burn on pyres outside Moria’s gates. And what mattered now was the realization that the past and present had come parallel with each other in a horrific twist of fate, joined by counterparts of madness and blood and death, to coincide together upon one single point in the line of Durin where history now repeated itself.

_‘I would never have thought to witness the mistakes of our grandfathers reinstated upon you, uncle.’_

Thorin threw the crown off his head with a clang. It rolled across the golden floor for a short distance before coming to a rest near the dropped ruby, lying in a crimson pool of its own reflected blood.

Never had the price of clarity been so high.

 

* * *

 

Back in the halls behind the barricaded gates, the company, fully armed in preparation for battle, waited restlessly for an uncertain end. Here the noise of fighting and the occasional crash of thunder could be heard quite clearly from the open ramparts above, from which wafted the rusty stench of blood as well as the din of swords. Bestial roars and human screams rent the air alike; the company was left to wonder which ones belonged to their dwarrow kin and of the conclusion of their own fate in the event of the battle’s inevitable loss.

Fíli’s return from his audience with the king brought back no resolution save for the delivery of a short – both in sentence and in temper – “No he would not open the gates.” He refused to answer when pressed for elaboration, choosing instead to lean against a pillar and stare at the rubble on the ground. After a few moments of dissatisfied grumbling, most of the dwarves had followed suit, albeit with a fidgety air, taking up similar occupations either standing or drafting stools out of the broken stones.

Fíli could tell what the majority of them were doing if he cared enough to look. Dwalin went alone up the walls to keep track of the battle, a necessary but disheartening duty that not even his brother seemed to want to share. Of the others, Dori, Nori, and Bofur huddled together, talking in hushed tones. Glóin sat by a whetstone, meticulously sharpening his array of axes. Ori was inspecting the sword in his hands with the intensity of someone who expects to find a message hidden on the steel. Bombur and Bifur both sat around the old fire pit, though Bifur merely appeared glum whereas Bombur looked absolutely miserable. Balin stood up front, in the clear space closest to the gate, openly keeping watch over the group and discreetly placing himself at the best vantage point for spotting any movement within the king’s gallery. Óin was out of his line of sight. And Kíli…

Fíli sighed. In the stretched-out short span of time since everyone retreated to their individual broodings, Kíli, ever the epitome of impatience, had elected for a continuous pacing across the hall. Between the clink of his footsteps and the hiss of Glóin’s whetstone Fíli could not decide which sound grated him the most. Now Kíli’s incessant tread took him closer and closer to Fíli’s pillar at each pass, at the opposite side of where he was leaning, and Fíli could see his intentions so clearly that it was almost too easy for him to step around and intercept his brother just as Kíli reached for the rope that was knotted to the stone.

Drawn through a series of hoops and connected to a pulley which in turn was connected to a bronze figurehead secured high up a ledge, the rope, when severed, would release all eight hundred and fifty stone of solid bronze to swing like a pendulum through the makeshift rubble gates. It was as efficient a way to end their miseries as any.

Disregarding Kíli’s cry of protest, Fíli seized him around the offending wrist and twisted it hard, effectively loosening his fingers and retrieving the revealed knife while simultaneously bending back to avoid his brother’s blow of retaliation. In a single fluid movement it was over; Fíli stepped back, the confiscated knife secure in his hand. Kíli glared at him in frustration.

“Thorin means for the mountain’s fortifications to remain intact,” Fíli began, but one look at Kíli’s face killed any further desire to attempt civilized admonishment. He let out a sigh, feeling already-tense nerves fraying deeper and no less frustrated than his brother. “You know that you can’t do this.”

“What we cannot do, Thorin has already done!” Kíli retorted. He had always been outspoken in his anger, regardless of whom or what it was directed at. The king was clearly no exception. “He would have us hide in this hole like cowering mice until all our kin lies in corpses! Are we simply to sit, and _listen_ ,” he made a furious gesture at the direction of the battlements, “while we wait for that to happen?”

Fíli could not blame his brother for his sentiments, for he shared most of them himself. But he did not share Kíli’s ability to bring himself to go against Thorin in such perilous circumstances, nor his liberal manner in giving such open voice to criticism against their king. Especially now with everyone in the company staring at them. Even Glóin’s whetstone had fallen silent. He was about to speak, a restraining hand about Kíli’s arm, when Balin’s voice started from behind his pipe.

“Knocking down those gates won’t help them now, laddie,” Balin said, calm and pragmatic as ever despite the severity of their situation. “The sides are too closely engaged for that. It’ll be impossible for Dáin’s folks to retreat inside without bringing with them a fair number of orcs and their foul beasts, and that’s not considering if we could even reclose the opening in time to stop them from completely overrunning the mountain.”

“Then we march out and join our swords to theirs like we should have done from the beginning!”

“That would be a very fine idea,” Bofur remarked, “if you had an army at your back instead of twelve. Much more efficient.”

“And that’ll be the end of us,” muttered a disgruntled Bombur from his seat.

Kíli whirled on them angrily, all clinking mail and flashing eyes, reminding Fíli every bit of Thorin when he turned upon him in condemnation in the king’s gallery. “At least it shall be an end with honour, which is more than what we’ll have if we continue this meaninglessness!”

There followed a brief silence in which everyone was too tense to speak. Then Balin’s gaze rose to sweep past them, straightening slowly and lowering his pipe. “Honour indeed,” he murmured quietly, and the expression on his face was of one who dared hope.

Fíli turned to follow his line of sight. The breath caught in his throat as he realized that he was looking at the entrance to the king’s gallery, its rightful owner and sole occupant an imposing silhouette against the illuminated aura of torch-lit gold.

Thorin had come forth from the depths of the mountain.

Heads turned and the seated rose to their feet in reaction to Thorin’s presence. “Kíli,” Fíli hissed in warning, but his brother was already freeing his arm from Fíli’s constraint and stepping forward before the older dwarf could stop him.

“What has the line of Durin come to, if we are to sit behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us?” he cried, restless challenge evident in every word and every defiant flash of his eyes. “I cannot command your actions, Thorin, but I can still command my own. By your leave or not, I will go out and fight!”

Thorin stopped a few feet in front of his youngest nephew, appraising him with a calm regard. Kíli met his gaze boldly with no sign of fear. Fíli’s eyes flitted from the naked sword in Thorin’s hand to Kíli’s defiant stance to Thorin’s expression to the other members of the company then back again, mind straining under a tumult of worry. At that moment, he cursed both Thorin’s affliction and his brother’s willfulness, while at the same time wondering if Thorin would actually go so far as to cause his nephew physical harm and if Kíli’s blatant challenge to Thorin’s authority would affect the dynamic of the company. By Mahal, there was still a _battle_ going on outside––

However, Fíli’s fears proved to be groundless. Thorin’s stern countenance softened into a warm smile, and he placed a gentle hand on Kíli’s shoulder, drawing him closer with all the evidence of their old fondness. “And my leave you shall have, though you do not ask for it.” His hand moved from Kíli’s shoulder to the back of his head, resting it on the dark locks in a gesture of affection. “Durin’s folk does not flee from a fight. But our numbers are small, and so we must make our strike swiftly and precisely. Success or failure, our stand must be made worthwhile.”

A round of pleased exclamations broke out amongst the assembled company at their king’s obvious change of heart. Kíli’s expression had transformed from its original mask of angry defiance to one of tentative hope, now it settled at last into a smile of pure undiluted joy, wholly assured by Thorin’s words.

“Uncle, you’re back,” he exclaimed wonderingly, throwing himself at Thorin in heartfelt embrace, who adjusted the grip of his sword and returned it with the same good-natured tolerance he usually reserved for his youngest nephew. But for a brief moment he glanced over Kíli’s shoulder, and Fíli finally allowed himself to release a breath that made his legs feel weak with relief.

“You’re back,” he whispered as he met Thorin’s eyes, and the fierce spark in their depths was all the assurance of the future that he needed.


	2. Of Victory's Price

 

Whatever it was that Kíli had imagined fighting in a battle would be, it certainly was not like this. With the initial call of the trumpet they had shattered the gates, leaping out straight into the fray at Thorin’s lead, only to be faced with ranks upon ranks of solid enemy lines that pressed upon them like an unending black tide. Everywhere he turned there were enemy blades, backed by the snarling faces of orcs and goblins; it seemed that for every one of them that was cut down, two more took its place. The only distinct impression that he could register in his mind was of the overwhelming closeness of space: there was no room to draw his bow, hardly enough room to even breathe; between the proximity of the orcs and the musk of their stench, combined with the overarching salty tang of blood, the stormy air was thick enough to make him feel suffocated and nauseous. This was not a field for heroism nor glory, not even for the testament of skill; it was all Kíli could do to keep his position behind Dwalin’s right side and press forward with mechanical chops of his sword without being crushed in.

It was a near hopeless endeavor, he could see that. For all his headstrong recklessness, Kíli was not one given to unrealistic expectations of victory, and he could read the situations of battle as well as any competent warrior. Back on the battlements Dwalin had reported the enemy moving in a crane’s wing battle formation – a rough likeness of the letter V – with the bulk of the army far to the back stretching into the ruins of Dale and the main command post set atop its battlements. The two wings of the deadly crane were manned by highly mobilized warg riders spread wide to flank Dáin’s forces from the sides, driving them back against Erebor’s gates. There they had joined with a second arrival of goblins streaming down from the slopes over the mountainside, effectively surrounding them from three sides with the mountain wall acting as a fourth. The two spurs of the mountains that once served as ambush points for the allied armies now proved to be a death trap which allowed for no chances of retreat. Bard and his small band of Lake-men across the river were pinned to the Eastern spur by the back of the crane’s right wing, engaged in a fight for their lives, while the majority of the elven warriors were bogged down by a faction of the enemy’s left vanguard far back along the Southern spur until Ravenhill. Their only chance of success, by Thorin’s calculations, was to gather with Dáin’s forces and charge forward for as far as they could; once they gained enough distance, the company would split ranks and cut through the right wing towards the command post in Dale to bring down Azog. Without the uniting intelligence of the pale orc’s leadership, the goblin army would likely scatter as grains of sand devoid of mortar.

Their plan had worked fairly well at first. Rallied by Thorin’s battle cry and the arrival of new aid, the dwarves, men, and elves had all fought with renewed energy, taking advantage of the enemy’s momentary confusion to gain precious ground. Swiftly the dwarves of Iron Hill rushed to his help, regrouping in formation behind their king; they formed an unbroken line of shields along their front ranks and pressed forward with outthrust spears like a wall of solid iron. When they reached the wider part of the valley Thorin let out a cry and led the charge east; he took with him his company and twoscore of Dáin’s warriors. With flashing sword and shining mail Thorin sliced through the enemy defences as an arrow-point lancing through water. Dwalin and Fíli were behind him on his right and left, after them came Kíli, Balin, and Glóin; they met their foes with a narrow reverse V formation of their own to act as a wedge in tearing a widening gap across the crane’s right wing. The Lake-men saw what they were doing, and doubled their efforts in attempt to meet them; countless wolves and riders were driven into the water or stampeded by their comrades under the ferocity of their onslaught. Dáin, at the forefront of the rest of his dwarves, sounded the horn before feigning slow defeat back into the shadows of the valley with the left wing pressing hot on their heels, the elves, upon reception of his signal, quickly caught on to their tactic and also began a slow retreat to the south, careful to keep the orcs engaged as they went. Together they were able to attempt to simultaneously draw out both ends of the enemy’s left side, thus thinning their defences, while at the same time the right wing teetered on the edge of collapse under Thorin’s attack.

For a fleeting instant it looked as if they had gained the upper hand. The orc army was again forced to fight on multiple fronts and was momentarily confused as to which ones they should be defending first. But that instant was indeed short-lived; Azog was a cunning tactician in the art of war, and he had the advantage of a clear view of the battlefield from his superior height above Dale’s walls. With a piercing shriek of orc-horn the flag signals were changed, fresh warg riders backed by goblin infantry streamed out from the main body to reform the flailing right wing, this time taking full note of the greatest weakness in Thorin’s strategy that the lesser orcs in their panic had previously overlooked: The sheer insufficiency of their numbers and the exposure of their rear and flanks. Instead of engaging them head-on, the warg riders streamed past to encircle them from behind; now _they_ were the ones being forced to fight on two fronts, experiencing reduction after reduction upon their already-pitiful numbers. Stripped of the elements of speed and surprise that had been their only hope, the attackers had turned into the attacked, and Kíli knew that it was only a matter of time before their shields would fail and they would be surrounded and dragged down to drown under the black tide.

There were simply too many to fight.

In a snatched moment of panted breath between a blocked spear and a retaliating thrust, Kíli looked up over the battlefield. Past the black sea of teeming orcs, the foreboding ruins of Dale loomed as a dark shadow outlined against a pallid grey sky. Beyond it, blacker thunderclouds pressed low against the horizon, a cheerless sight for a cheerless day.

How far were they from their destination? He wondered with a strange sense of detachment. He could discern with certainty the malignant form of the pale orc prowling below his flag post, which meant that they must be close. Two hundred yards? A hundred seventy-five? An elven archer with a good bow could easily hit a target at thrice the length. But it was a distance that Kíli knew in his heart that they would not be able to cross, the distance between life and death, success and failure, and he felt a sudden surge of bitter anger at the thought that they had come so far, only to be defeated by their old enemies now.

“We’ll never make it like this,” he gasped over the tumult as he struggled to draw alongside Fíli and Dwalin, already they were being crushed closer and closer together into a tight knot. “The river––if we can fight through that way we may still have a chance…”

 From the point of the company Thorin spared him a glance, even as his critical position kept him hard-pushed to hold the encroaching enemy ranks at bay and allowed no opportunity for conversation. But it was Dwalin who answered, swinging his great axes without breaking stride.

“No, laddie, we won’t,” grunted the seasoned warrior as he knocked the slavering jaws of a warg aside and sending it careening into its comrades with a well-aimed blow to the eye. “Chances were against us from the beginning. But we were never supposed to. The Defiler is the one who will come to us, he’s waited for this long enough.”

A long howl came then from Dale’s battlements, as if in testament to Dwalin’s words.

Kíli felt his blood curdle. It was a bone-chilling sound, starting as a long, deep rumble but soaring upwards to impossibly high, until it seemed that even the clouds would shatter under the sheer weight of its contained malevolence. He snapped his head up towards the source, just in time to see a flash of white fur leap from the broken stones of the desolate city, and like the parting of a tide the darkness of the enemy ranks receded before him.

“Oakenshield!” Azog roared, the blade of his severed arm flashing in the grey sky-light.

The scope of the battlefield was suddenly changing around them. Gone was the incessant press of the solid orc wall in their numbers beyond count, Kíli felt that he could finally breathe again, but his moment of confused relief was short-lived as the wargs harassing their sides and rear redoubled their attacks in a charge of frenzied madness. The dwarves had no choice but to go forward in effort to escape; the front they had previously fought so hard to gain was suddenly an open space around them, impossibly mocking in its gaping emptiness.

And abruptly everything in the immediate vicinity fell still. To their grim surprise and resignation, the company of Thorin Oakenshield found themselves standing at the edge of a wide circle, looking straight into the murderous path of Azog the Defiler.

“Oakenshield,” repeated Azog astride his great white warg, and there was laughter in his voice this time, the savage satisfaction of a beast who cornered his prey. “It is well past time for me to collect my due. The line of Durin will not be able to cheat me from it…again.”

He reached the opposite end of the circle and stopped there, his mounted guards fanning out behind him. Kíli took advantage of the lull to dart around to press himself against Thorin’s side, but his uncle did not turn this time. Thorin stood straight and still, the coldness of his resolve cutting as a blade; all too soon Kíli felt him move away, and he instinctively clutched at his arm, but all that registered was the chill of metal armor as it slid through his fingers, black and grimy with the filth of war.

To Thorin’s left, now cleared to his line of sight, Fíli gave a slight shake of his head. The unvoiced message was clear: _There is nothing that you can do._

And so he could only watch as Thorin stepped forward, gore-stained blade held wide at his side, to meet Azog’s mockery with a challenge of his own, the deep hatred which ran past a hundred years barely suppressed under the steely demeanor.

“Then you must come and take it from me, filth,” he replied coldly.

Behind him his kin and companions started as if to follow in aid. Thorin immediately spun to stop them, voice hard with the finality of command: “No! Stand back. This is my fight and mine alone.”

It was an order which Kíli would have gladly ignored, but Fíli and Dwalin, ever so infuriatingly obedient to Thorin’s wishes, pulled him back with a hand on either arm. Frustrated to the point of rage, Kíli shook them free and faced his brother, barely remembering to keep his tone hushed and wondering what it was about the situation that they could not see: “He can’t win this on his own! There are at least seven wargs in the guard, we cannot just play audience and expect Azog to fight _fair_ ––”

“He only means to buy us time, brother. Victory is too lofty a hope.”

Kíli stared at him, uncomprehending. How could he be so calm when Thorin was literally walking into a death trap? But Fíli’s eyes were filled with a still grimness as they tracked Thorin’s advance, the steel edge of his resolve as cutting as their uncle’s had been, though his hands clenched so tightly around the hilts of his swords that the twin blades trembled.

And not once did Thorin look back.

Across the circle Azog was speaking again. “Very clever,” the pale orc laughed. “But fear not, I shall make sure you will not be alone in death. Your end will come––and the rest of your kin with you.”

“So let us end this now!” Thorin swept his sword upwards, and with a mighty howl Azog and his guards leapt towards him, teeth gleaming with savage desire for blood.

In an instant Azog was upon Thorin, swinging his great war-mace with the full momentum of the charge behind him, even as the dwarf king twisted to avoid the outstretched fangs of the white warg. Unwittingly Kíli let out a cry. Unmounted, there was no way that Thorin would be able to parry such a blow, and the rest of the warg guards were already striking from behind, blocking off all space for evasion. Kíli’s heart jumped into his mouth as white fur momentarily obstructed his uncle’s figure from view, but almost at the same moment there came a glimpse of sparks and the sound of clashing metal – first a great crash, then twice, thrice, a fourth time in quick succession, followed by a howl of pain – and the big white warg was suddenly whipping away with angry snarls upon its lips, to reveal Thorin standing a little ways apart, black blood steaming along the edge of his sword and red dripping down the back of his opposite hand. One of the other wolves stumbled backwards, clearly favouring an injured leg.

Azog’s eyes blazed with intense concentration as he pulled his mount around to circle his prey once more.

The next few minutes were the most wretched ones of Kíli’s life. He was forced to watch as Thorin was assailed by the throng of wolves again and again, each fresh wave of attack sapping his strength and taking him longer to repel. While Thorin fought valiantly and his armour so far provided protection against any critical injury, he was still badly disadvantaged in every way; the only reason that the fight had lasted even this long was because Azog’s guards had no real intention of killing and beset him only for their leader’s convenience at the final blow. Had all the orcs and their wargs decided to leap in for the kill, everything would have been over much sooner. Even the most formidable warrior stood no chance against such odds. Kíli knew this, and internally cried out to spring to Thorin’s aid, but strong hands were wrapped around his arms again, holding him in place, even whilst a warg sank its teeth into Thorin’s sword shoulder from behind. Though Thorin was able to deflect its rider’s strike in time to pull himself free by leaving a piece of shoulder guard in its mouth, Kíli could see clear traces of red on the lighter fur around the wolf’s muzzle; it had drawn considerable blood, and celebrated this achievement with a jeering roar echoed by its watching compatriots.

The sight tore at his heart. Now he was struggling desperately against the hands of his kin, his demands for release drowned amid the storm of sound – _why_ were they refusing to allow him to help? Somewhere to the side and back he was dimly aware of people talking, the voices of Fíli and Dwalin, Balin and Glóin, as well as others, all merging in a nonstop mindless babble about Dáin, elves, and the left wing: they must keep Azog’s attention focused away from the western front for as long as possible and they could _not_ do that if they all charge in and make Azog decide that it would be more convenient to end them at once instead of playing cat-and-mouse with Thorin. And they were saying it insistently, persistently, punctuated by hard shakes to his restrained arms, as if they expected him to _understand_ ––

“It is _his choice_ , Kíli,” Fíli was hissing into his ear. “Do not undermine his sacrifice!”

 _But he is your king!_ Kíli wanted to scream at all of them. _Your kin, your cousin, your uncle, are you truly so content to watch him die?_

 

* * *

 

“You favour your grandfather, Oakenshield,” snarled Azog as he tried to thrust his prosthetic blade past the range of Thorin’s defences. “Fitting that you should both receive the same end.”

Thorin deflected the strike without dignifying the orc with a response. It was a long blade, and the wound on his shoulder made him move an instant too slow; the tip caught him partly on the upper arm and slid off the armor plating with an offending screech, unbalancing him. Rather than struggle to regain his balance, which would waste precious time, Thorin instead allowed himself to turn with the momentum, going directly into a slashing spin which drove back the warg preparing to attack his rear. Breathing hard, he came out of it with barely a stagger, and brought his sword up to counter the blow of a third rider in one smooth movement, determinedly ignoring the pain that lanced through his injured shoulder at the forceful impact.

In truth, he had almost no breath left to refute the jibe. Leading the hard charge through the thick of enemy ranks had in itself been an exhausting ordeal, and here alone in Azog’s arena amid the numerous warg riders, reliance upon speed and agility was his best chance for survival. For a time he had managed to hold his own, weaving deftly between the fangs of the wolves and their riders’ iron blades, but now the trials of battle were taking its toll. His steps were slower, his armor felt heavier, and his injured sword-arm no longer responded with the strength and precision that it should. A continuous warm wetness plastered the entirety of his right side in stark contrast to the air’s biting chill. Though invisible under the dark fabric of his clothing, the wolves could still smell the redness of death on him, clear as day. The knowledge made their eyes gleam with savage glee.

His time was almost over, Thorin realized with little regret. While he risked no westward glance for fear of alerting Azog to their plans, he fervently hoped that the dwarves and elves spilling their blood on the western front had been given enough time to complete their manoeuvre. He hoped against hope that there was at least a small chance that they would succeed, and make his sacrifice to be not in vain, and perhaps – just perhaps – the rest of the company would live to see their victory.

 _Watch over them, Mahal,_ he prayed silently, but the Maker had abandoned them to their own fates long ago. _Dáin, Thranduil, do not fail my trust a second time. You must prevail in this, for the sake of your own lives if not for mine!_

Azog’s white warg leapt at him again, slightly too high to be effective. He ducked easily, evading both claw and mace, stretching his sword as the wolf tore past to give a good gash along its flank.

“Thorin! Behind you!”

A cry came from the direction of his kinsmen – of which he had pointedly decided _not_ to look at ever since he answered Azog’s challenge – and he whipped around. Azog’s attack had been a ruse. While Thorin’s attention had been focused upwards on the white wolf’s leap, another had approached from the side, and along the ground a smaller warg had flattened itself to creep its stealthy way towards him. Thorin turned, only to see the adjacent rider launch itself into the air, broadsword cleaving vertically towards his skull with the force of an avalanche, while the slinking smallish wolf darted forward, the orc upon it leaning down to sweep its mattock across the backs of his knees.

In the instant between life and death, Thorin did not choose to parry, but rushed at the orc wielding the mattock. In a burst of superior speed, he brought himself alongside the weapon on the lowest point of its swing, stepping onto the shaft; in two swift steps he was up the orc’s arm, launching himself at the second warg just as the smaller one below sprung to its full height in retaliation to the unexpected weight. The added momentum took him higher than the leap of his foe; the orc rider in midair suddenly saw a muted flash of steel. There came a tremendous clang, and down fell the rider and mount, helpless as a stone, they crashed onto their mattock-wielding compatriot below in a tangle of fur and limbs. Thorin landed heavily, shoulder burning. He was forced to brace his sword on the ground for balance, but before he had a chance to recover, something large slammed into his flank and sent him tumbling across the frozen ground. A white paw pressed down on his chest, cutting off much-needed air.

“No! Thorin!” The scream came again, the edges frayed raw in its desperation. Other familiar voices joined him, indistinguishable now amidst the rising excitement of the audience. The end was coming, and the foul creatures delighted in it.

“It is over, Oakenshield.” Azog’s cold snarl sounded beside his ear, and Thorin looked up from his winded daze into the vile face of the pale orc, which loomed at him above the giant muzzle of his mount, bent so close that he could feel the heat of its rank breath. It licked its sharp fangs, expectant.

Back at the edge someone (or the entirety) of the company must have tried to reach him, because Azog briefly turned his head and barked an annoyed command in the dark tongue over his shoulder. Thorin felt rather than saw the tide of blackness converge on his companions, but the time for despair was long over. He could only watch numbly through dimming vision as Azog lifted the blade of his severed arm for the killing blow, a fitting retribution for his bitter triumph that day so many, many years ago.

“Die, like your forefathers and your fool of a brother. Let the filthy line of Durin die with you!”

But the blade did not come down.

Someone screamed his name again, disconcertingly close this time. Instead from above there came sounds of a scuffle followed by a grunt of irritated anger – which quickly changed into a bellow of surprised rage. Then abruptly the crushing weight of the warg was gone, and he could draw breath again, its crushing weight replaced by a terrible, shrieking cry of pain that Thorin before would not have believed a warg capable of making. The wretched creature reared above him, paws scrabbling wildly at its own face, as it shook its head in a fit of crazed agony Thorin was able to discern the source of its ailment: a knife was embedded in its eye, weeping thick tears of blood that stained the snowy fur black.

His own vision swam again before finally coming into stable focus, and when it did, it was straight unto a scene pulled from the hidden depths of his worst fears.

Azog had caught Kíli fast around the throat, and with the other arm, the pale orc stabbed downwards towards his heart.

“No!” he gasped.

Then Kíli turned his head to look at him, hair falling away from his face, and in his eyes Thorin suddenly found clarity. The voice had been Kíli’s all along. It was Kíli who called to him to distract Azog from delivering the death blow, he had risked everything to cripple the white warg, and now he exchanged his life to successfully unarm the pale orc of his most efficient weapon in his one functioning hand. _A chance,_ read the unvoiced plea in his nephew’s gaze, _your chance…_

 _A chance, but at what price?_ His mind screamed bitterly. A chance for him to live a moment more for another attempt at the unlikely completion of an already-failed task, only to watch his young kin fall to the fate that should have been his? _Foolish child…_

But a chance was a chance, and on a battlefield such chances were far too valuable to let pass; there were greater things at stake here, much greater than the price of their own two lives. The doom was not yet sealed for all of them, for his mental lapse had taken but the millionth fraction of a second; the fatal thrust has not yet come to transpire. Groping along the ground with his left hand, as his right was near paralyzed by fiery pain, Thorin grabbed the first thing that he encountered and swung it at the warg’s head with all his might, lunging to his feet in the process. It reeled back, howling in renewed rage and pain, the sharper curved end of the mattock had buried in its other eye and stayed there, caught on the bone socket underneath.

Still Azog’s blade fell, even as his mount bucked and twisted under him in its blind torment. The silvered steel continued its downward descent, piercing through the young dwarf’s lighter mail, one last time it went down, and Kíli barely uttered a cry, then it was brutally torn out again, silver edges now hidden under a sheen of glistening red. Thorin screamed then, as he had not screamed since he witnessed Thrór’s decapitation, he found his own sword again and swung it left-handed, only to be blocked with a jarring rush, the tip coated in his nephew’s blood mere inches from his face. Azog flung the body aside with careless cruelty, turning to face him, Thorin could see the madness of pure sadistic viciousness etched in those ugly features, mindless in its malevolence.

All around chaos were erupting. Members of the company and the remains of those he had taken from Dáin’s guard were breaking through left and right, though they were still hopelessly surrounded; he glimpsed Balin’s white hair from the corner of his eye, and heard Fíli’s anguished cry as he reached his fallen brother. But Thorin’s singular focus was on the pale orc, the simmering hatred of a hundred and forty-two years boiling to its peak and overriding physical hurts, they engaged again for a few brief blows, before the throes of Azog’s mount forced Thorin back. The white wolf was in full crazed frenzy now, howling and clawing and snapping at thin air with neither aim nor regard to its rider. One of its motions brought the mattock’s still-dangling haft within Thorin’s reach, and so he seized it, intending to end the beast, but at the pain of fresh pressure put upon its already-tender wound, the beast finally lost its last vestiges of sanity, and bolted off in a blind run.

Taken by surprise, Thorin did not immediately think to relinquish his hold, and thus was dragged out a near couple scores of yards by the warg’s mad dash. Confused orcs and goblins hurried to throw themselves out of their leader’s path, as the way opened, finally free from congestion, Thorin saw with greater surprise that they had not been so far from the river after all. It ran now before them, swift and silent under thin ice; he released his hand and rolled out of the way just before the warg ran itself howling over the bank’s edge, ending its sightless torment in the icy plunge beneath.

He stood and looked around for Azog. Of course the cunning orc had the sense to jump off his mount, a true pity too, for Thorin would much have preferred that they both meet a watery end. It did not take long to find him; he was also by the bank, just starting to regain his feet. Thorin made his attack before he could recover and rearm; stripped of his weapon and warg and backed by the river, Azog could do little more than defend himself. Fueled by the fresh grief of Kíli’s death, Thorin’s sword fell with renewed vigor, within a few seconds he had broken past Azog’s guard to leave a deep slash across the inside of his remaining arm, effectively severing the tendon. The orc bellowed in dismay and anger. He was echoed by a single, clear note from the west, soaring high over the waning sky.

Thorin’s heart soared with it as he recognized the sound. It was the call of an elven horn, incredibly close by the quality of its clearness. Azog stiffened before his eyes, realizing too late his mistake: his failure to recognize the falseness of Dáin and Thranduil’s retreat had led to fatal lapse on the western front, allowing them to stretch the left army until it thinned to the point of weakness, to be cut through like heated butter upon the allies’ retaliating attack. Had he not been so preoccupied with his game with Thorin and stayed on the walls to keep watch over the battle, Azog would have likely seen through their trick before it had a chance to unfold, but be that as it may, his arrogance and need for revenge blinded him to deadly error. And in his realization of the first, he made his second: the direction of a series of sharp whistles drew his gaze towards Dale’s battlements, and the horrors of seeing his flag post combust in a burst of flame held his attention a little too long. It was almost too easy for Thorin to step up, going into a half turn at Azog’s belated parry, his sword ran along the length of the prosthetic blade with a screech of metal, and completed its motion with its tip buried in the Defiler’s throat.

“For Thrór,” he whispered savagely, savoring at last the death of his old foe. “For Kíli.”

A fountain of black blood spurted out as he flicked his wrist. A dark smile gaped across the pale neck, ghastly and wide against the colourless skin. The foul features above looked even uglier in death, frozen in a permanent mask of furious disbelief.

With the last remnants of his strength, Thorin cleaved the orc’s head from its body, and held it aloft for all to see.

“Azog is dead! The Defiler is dead!”

His proclamation spread across the black host like fire through a parched meadow. Far and wide orcs, goblins, and wargs learned the news, even those not close enough to see the carcass. Many of them were already bewildered from witnessing their command flags turn into a torch, and at this last straw they turned and ran. Lesser commanders tried desperately to keep order, but their army had grown disheartened; they had not the wits nor means to coordinate themselves without Azog’s central flag post. Most still fought, but now their efforts were sporadic and unorganized, an effective functioning army reduced to a chaotic mob. To the west the elven horns sounded again; across the river there came a ragged cheer –the Lake-men had regained control of the opposite bank.

Consoled by the turning tide, Thorin threw Azog’s head into the thick of enemy ranks. Relief was a luxury that he could not yet afford, as they were still heavily outnumbered. Trying to see past the immediate wall of orcs had ever been a useless endeavor, so he looked towards the blazing brand on the city wall, attempting to calculate the distance of the elven army. Burning the command post was an ingenious move, he accredited. The elves had used whistling arrows to draw attention as well as those carrying the flame, hence leading to Azog’s lapse, and as the cloth of all signal flags were commonly treated with oil for protection against foul weather, they had caught fire as soon as the first arrow brushed. To reach a shot of that height and distance, Thranduil’s people must be at most a third of a mile away, perhaps even less.

He tightened the hold of his left hand about the hilt of his sword, and dove back into the fray.

The arrow came out of nowhere. One moment Thorin was fighting, catching glimpses of his own comrades through thinning enemies, and the next he felt a concentrated force slam into his unarmored right shoulder, driving his breath away and pitching him backwards. The initial contact registered as a cold pinch in already-burning wounds, which abruptly exploded in fiery pain, increasing the original agony by a hundredfold. Staggering back, he struggled to regain his balance, but the ground under his feet was suddenly no longer there, he stepped into empty space above the riverbank, and was suddenly dropping in free fall.

“Thorin!” A familiar voice shouted overhead.

His fall jerked to a halt, injured shoulder screaming as it was subjected to a fresh wrench of abuse. Fíli caught him by the wrist and for a moment he hung there, gritting his teeth against the pain and looking up into the face of his remaining nephew. Fíli quickly moved to pull him up, much like Dwalin had done in the cliffs outside the goblin caves; it was a much easier task than before, as the banks were neither very tall nor steep along the river.

Then someone shoved Fíli from behind, and they were both falling into the cold waters below.

Far above the clouds, an eagle screeched.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY need to get out of my habit of rambling on and on about a single thing... Apologies to anyone who drown in my sea of commas and semicolons and helpless grammar/punctuation.  
> No character death in this chapter, in case anyone's wondering.


End file.
